


Danse Avec Moi

by Heavenli24



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, LV AU WEEK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 15:56:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18076427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavenli24/pseuds/Heavenli24
Summary: Some love stories begin with a dance.LoVe AU Week 2019 - Day 4: Dance With Me.





	Danse Avec Moi

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again to Irma66 for her quick beta of this story :).

 

 

**Neptune, California, February 1985**

"C'mon, Grandpa, tell it again." The excited, wide eyes of his young grandson look up at him pleadingly the boy tugs at his sleeve. "Please?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You really want to hear the same old, boring story again?"

"Please, Grandpa?" his ten-year-old granddaughter pipes up from her position on the floor. "And it's not boring, it's romantic."

"Romantic, huh?" he smiles, tilting his head to one side in thought. "Yeah, I guess you could say it is."

"So, will you tell it?" seven-year-old Matthew asks again.

"Okay." He fakes a long-suffering sigh. "I'll tell it."

"Yes!" Laura punches the air, jumping up from the floor and settling herself beside him on the sofa.

Matthew follows suit and curls up at his other side, and as he wraps an arm around each of them, he smiles.

"All right, then," he says. "Are we all comfortable?"

"Yes, Grandpa," the kids chorus in unison.

"Right then. It all started in the summer of 1942…"

* * *

**A small village in France, not far from Paris, July 1942**

The small, rural pubic house was filled with locals, drinking and laughing in an attempt to forget that a war was raging outside. In the corner of the pub was a young woman, sitting alone, a glass of red wine placed delicately on the table in front of her as she flicked through the pages of a well-worn book. She was very pretty; blonde, petite… and American, though she didn't advertise that fact, which was helped immensely by the fact that she spoke fluent French with barely a hint of an accent.

In fact, only one person in the pub was aware of her foreign heritage—the young bartender named Pierre who had accidentally stumbled across her mumbling to herself in English as she scribbled in her notebook last week. She'd shown up in the village about three weeks ago, looking for a room in the guest house attached to the pub, and she'd been here ever since. She'd claimed she needed a break from her busy Paris life, though ever since Pierre had discovered she wasn't French, his suspicions over her real reason for being here had been growing steadily.

Glancing over at her now, her legs crossed, one heeled foot bouncing as she read, Pierre was tempted to approach her, maybe offer to buy her a drink, see if he could find out anything about her. His thoughts were cut short, however, by the sound of shouting from outside.

The door burst open then, revealing a gasping, young Mathieu—the landlord's son—sweaty and out of breath.

"Come. Come quick," he said breathlessly, gesturing to the occupants of the pub. "There's been a crash."

"A crash?" Mathieu's father, Jean-Claude stepped out from behind the bar, as Pierre took a step towards the door. "What do you mean?"

Mathieu leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. A moment later, he straightened up. "A plane's gone down a couple of fields away. It's on fire."

"Merde!" exclaimed Jean-Claude. "Any survivors?"

"I don't know. But we have to help."

"Okay." Jean-Claude took charge. "Anna, look after the bar," he told his wife, then turned to the room. "Guillaume, Mathieu, I need you to hook up the hoses. Pierre, fetch the first aid supplies."

"Of course, Jean-Claude." Pierre nodded quickly and turned to head out to the back.

"We'll meet outside in five minutes."

* * *

An hour later, the blaze from the plane was under control, and several volunteers with torches were spread out, looking for any sign of survivors.

"It's no use," sighed Guillaume after several long minutes of searching. "It's too dark. Even if someone is out here, we won't find them in this light."

"No, we need to keep looking," insisted Pierre. "If anyone is here, it might be too late by morning."

He shone his torch across the field once more, not expecting to find anything, but then he saw it: a flashing light.

"Hello?" he called out, making his way towards the light. "Is someone there?"

This time, there was a weak, muffled shout, and Pierre broke out into a run, following both the light and the sound. He stopped abruptly when he came across a man lying in the grass. He was wearing a flight suit and aviation goggles, and a parachute was tangled around his body. There was blood trickling down his face and he was wincing as he tried to move.

"It's okay," he said, kneeling down beside the man. "We're here to help. Can you tell me your name?"

The pilot just looked up at him in confusion and bewilderment, before muttering in halting, hesitant, heavily accented French, "Je ne comprends pas."  _I don't understand._

"Is okay," Pierre switched to the small amount of English he knew. "We will help."

"Merci." The pilot managed a jerking nod before his eyes slid closed and he passed out.

Pierre looked up at the group of people gathered around them. "Let's get him back to the guest house."

* * *

The pilot woke with a groan, his eyes blinking open slowly, as his surroundings came into focus. As he tried to move, his shoulder twinged in pain and he looked down to see his arm in a sling _. What the hell happened?_

Lifting his head, he took in the flowered wallpaper, the thick, velvet curtains and the metal-framed bed he was propped up in.  _What the fuck? This isn't base camp._

"Where the hell am I?"

"Ne vous inquiétez pas, vous êtes en sécurité," came a voice from the other side of the room.  _Don't worry, you're safe._

He looked over to see a young man standing in the doorway, gesturing towards him.

"I'm sorry, I don't…" he stopped, trying to remember the limited amount of French he'd been taught before being sent here. "Uh, désolé… je ne… parle pas français. Je… suis …Américain."  _Sorry, I don't speak French. I'm American._

_"_ Je vois," said the man with a nod, before switching to English. "My English is not so good. I am Pierre."

"Where am I, Pierre?" he asked, wracking his brain for the right phrase. "Um… où.. suis-je?"

"Le Meux," said the man.

He nodded. "And what happened to me?"

Pierre shook his head, holding out his hands in an uncomprehending gesture.

"Right." The pilot let his head fall back against the pillows. "You don't understand me. Shit."

Pierre's expression turned lost then, as if he didn't know what to do now, but then he straightened, his eyes lighting up like he'd just had an idea. Holding up a finger in a 'wait right there' signal, he ducked out into the hallway, leaving the injured pilot alone in the room.

"Right. Okay, then."

* * *

Thinking quickly, Pierre rushed down the stairs and into the main bar area, letting out a sigh of relief when he saw the person he was looking for. Crossing the room quickly, he slowed as he approached the blonde, a little nervous about what he had come to ask her.

"Uh, excuse me, mademoiselle?" he asked in French.

She looked up from the notebook she was scrawling in and then smiled kindly when she saw him. "Ah, good morning, Pierre. How are you today?"

"I actually…" he stumbled over the words. "I have a—a favour to ask of you."

"A favour?" She frowned, looking a little guarded. "What kind of favour?"

"Well, you see… you know about the plane crash last night?" started Pierre. She nodded. "Well, we found someone. The pilot. He was still alive, so we brought him back here."

"Okay…"

"Well, the thing is, he doesn't speak French, and my English is terrible, and so I was hoping you might be able to translate for us?"

"Translate?" Her voice didn't give anything away, though she raised an eyebrow. "And why would I be able to do that?"

"Look…" Pierre slid onto the chair on the other side of her small table, glancing around the room to check no one could hear them, before leaning in. "I know you're American."

"You, what?" Her eyes widened, glancing furtively around. "But I haven't… how did you find out?"

He shrugged sheepishly. "I may have overheard you talking in English in the courtyard last week."

"Shit," she muttered, looking to him urgently. "Does anyone else know?"

Pierre shakes his head. "No. Your secret's safe with me. I promise."

She visibly relaxed at that.

"So, will you help? With the pilot?" he asked, tone almost pleading.

She looked for a moment like she was going to refuse, but eventually, she gave a slow nod. "Okay. I'll help. What do you need me to do?"

"Thank you." Pierre smiled, standing from the chair. "Come with me?"

* * *

As she followed Pierre up the stairs to the guest house bedrooms, she wondered what she was getting herself into. This was supposed to be a deep undercover assignment. No one was supposed to know she was an imposter, that she wasn't a normal French girl just trying to escape city life during the war. But now Pierre knew she was American, and she was about to offer up her translating services for an injured, English-speaking pilot.

_You couldn't make this up._

Pierre stopped in front of one of the rooms.

"He's in here," he told her, gently opening the door and gesturing for her to enter.

As she stepped inside the room, the occupant of the bed—a young man, maybe early-20's, with his arm in a sling—startled, obviously not expecting to see her, before groaning in pain and slumping back against the pillows.

"Who are you?" he demanded to know, his accent American. "What's going on?"

"Mademoiselle is here… to help you," said Pierre then.

She took a step further into the room, pasting a smile onto her face. "Hello."

His mouth dropped open in surprise. "You speak English? Oh, thank God."

"I do." She nodded. "Pierre asked me to translate for you. I'm Veronica."

A hint of a smile tugged at his lips as he nodded. "Lieutenant Echolls. US Army Air Force."

"Well, very nice to meet you, Lieutenant." She held out a hand to him as she took a seat in the chair beside the bed. "Do you have a first name to go with the rank?"

He gave a soft, almost incredulous laugh as he gingerly reached out to shake her hand. "It's Logan."

"All right. Logan." She smiled. "So, can you tell me what happened last night? Pierre says your plane crashed and they found you in a nearby field?"

Logan frowned.

"I remember taking off yesterday evening," he said slowly, frowning in concentration. "Everything was fine, until… well, until it wasn't. I don't know what went wrong, but I was losing altitude fast and I just acted on instinct, pressed the eject button and hoped for the best."

Veronica nodded, then turned to Pierre and translated Logan's words for him.

Pierre nodded. "Tell him the doctor visited last night, when he was unconscious. He has a broken arm, and a concussion… and there's a possibility he might have a leg fracture as well."

"What's he saying?" Logan asked, looking between the two of them.

"He says that the doctor came by to see you last night. Your arm is broken, and maybe your leg too. You also have a concussion. I guess you hit your head when you ejected."

"Well, isn't that swell," he muttered, letting his head drop to the pillows behind him. "So, I'm stuck here in the middle of nowhere, France, huh?"

"Well, it's Le Meux, France, actually," she corrected with a soft smile. "And I'm sorry."

"That's life, I guess." He gave a sigh. "Just my luck."

"Look on the bright side," she added. "At least you're not dead."

* * *

The next few weeks passed incredibly slowly for Logan. As it turned out, he had broken his leg as well as his arm, and he'd been going stir crazy stuck in the guest house all that time. At least he had Veronica to keep him company. She was a godsend—the only one in this damn place who actually spoke English well enough to hold a conversation. She mostly left him alone during the daytime, but she always showed up around dinner time with a tray of food—enough for two—and she would sit with him while they ate, then keep him company late into the night.

They played card games, and board games, and talked about a lot of things—like what it was like growing up in Southern California, which surprisingly, is where they were both from, and what their life dreams were growing up—but even so, he still felt like she was keeping something from him.

She knew all about his decision to join the Army Air Force, about how he left to get away from the clutches of his abusive father, and that he wanted to carry on his maternal family legacy, but when it came to talking about why  _she_  was here in France, she became uncharacteristically mute. From her reluctance to talk, her insistence that no one else must know she was American, and from the way she flicked through and scribbled in that notebook of hers when she thought he wasn't looking, he could only assume she was undercover intelligence of some kind; perhaps military, but he wasn't sure.

After about a month of being cramped up in the guest house, his arm mostly healed, and his leg not far behind, he was finally allowed to venture down the stairs and into the bar area. Of course, now that he was outside the secretive confines of his room, he couldn't actually acknowledge Veronica as anything other than a fellow bar patron, which also meant he had no one to talk to, other than when Pierre would come sit with him and attempt to improve his English.

Veronica, for her part, played the quiet French girl bit flawlessly, constantly burying her nose in a book and paying Logan no mind whatsoever. So, as refreshing it was to have a change of scenery, he found he could only manage an hour or so sitting alone in the bar before he couldn't stand it any longer and headed back upstairs.

A week later, however, as he was nursing a beer in the bar, he looked up and caught Veronica's eye. She tilted her head in the direction of the door and raised an eyebrow in invitation. He nodded almost imperceptibly and after a couple more minutes, he watched discretely as she stood and headed out of the bar, passing his table and stealthily slipping a note into his hand on her way. Logan gave it two more minutes, before he opened the note, careful not to let anyone see it, and then haltingly made his way into the guest house and out of the back door there.

"Hey." Veronica smiled as he slowly approached the large, wide log she was perched on out in the wooded clearing she'd pointed out to him from his bedroom window last week.

"Fancy seeing you here," he returned, easing himself down onto the log, resting the walking cane the doctor had given him alongside.

"Sorry," she apologised softly. "I wanted to talk to you, and I figured you could use some fresh air."

"Oh, I'm not complaining," he replied. "This… being outside… it's well worth it after being cooped up in there for weeks."

"I can imagine." She nodded.

Folding her hands in her lap, she looked down at them. Logan glanced over at her, taking in her pale green fitted, button-down dress, the long skirt flowing around her calves, and the way her rolled hair fell around her shoulders when her head was dipped. She was wearing bright red lipstick—same as always—and it struck him then how much it suited her.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" he murmured.

Her head shot up at that, her eyes wide as she looked at him in surprise.

"Sorry," he apologised quickly. "I didn't mean to—it's just… well, it's the truth. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met, both inside and out."

Her lips twitched for a moment, before her eyes narrowed and she muttered, "Wouldn't be so sure about that."

"Come on." Logan reached out, sliding a hand over hers. "Don't sell yourself short."

"You don't know me, Logan," she said, even as she took his hand in both of hers. "You think you do, but you don't."

"So, tell me."

She shook her head. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't okay. So, please, just leave it."

She lifted her eyes, locking gazes with him, and he can't resist any longer. He reaches out, pushing her hair behind her shoulder, before resting his thumb against her cheek, cupping her jaw in his hand.

Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, and she swallowed audibly. "Logan, this is a bad idea."

"What's so bad about it?" he wondered. "There's something between us, not even you can deny that."

"No, I can't," she admitted, "but that doesn't mean this is the right thing to do."

"It  _feels_  right," he said, leaning in a little closer, until their lips were barely an inch apart.

She sighed, relenting. "Yeah, it does."

Logan smiled. "So, we're in agreement?"

"We are."

"Good."

He didn't waste a moment longer, just closed the gap between them, capturing her soft, lips in a warm kiss. She responded immediately, kissing him back eagerly. He slid his hand around to her neck, up under her perfectly coiffed curls, holding her close. They kissed for what felt like an eternity, but when she eventually pulled back, Logan still groaned at the loss of her touch.

Breathily heavily, Veronica let her forehead rest against his, her hand coming to his cheek. "Logan…"

"Don't," he said, shaking his head. "Please, don't ruin the moment."

"I'm sorry," she apologised softly. "I—I have to go away for a while."

He straightened. "Go where?"

She shook her head sadly. "I can't tell you."

"For how long?"

"I don't know," she said regretfully.

Logan nodded on resignation, looking down for a moment, before lifting his head to her. "But you'll come back?"

She smiled then. "Of course."

* * *

Veronica was gone for three weeks. Three long, agonising weeks. Pretty much the only upside of her absence was that by the time she finally returned, Logan's body was almost completely healed from his injuries.

It was late at night, and he was sitting in the bar, the place empty apart from Pierre who was sitting opposite him, attempting to hold a basic conversation in French—the man had kindly been teaching him some more of the language in the last few weeks, while Logan helped him with his English—when she finally walked back into his life.

The moment she appeared in the bar, looking as beautiful and elegant as ever, Logan smiled widely, sliding out of his chair, and walking, cane-free, across the room to her.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle," he greeted, coming to a stop before her.

A bright smile lit up her face. "Bonjour, Monsieur."

"Je suis très heureux de te voir," he said, stumbling over the words a little.  _It's so good to see you._

Her smile widened, her eyes sparkling. "On dirait que tu exerces ton français?"  _Practicing your French, I see?_

"Huh?"

She shook her head with an amused smile. "Never mind."

"You came back," he murmured, almost in wonder.

"I said I would."

"I know." He nodded. "Just wasn't sure if you actually  _would_ , you know?"

"I keep my promises, Logan," she assured him, looking him up and down. "Well, you look great. All better now?"

"Pretty much." He nodded, before lowering his voice. "Tu m'as manqué."  _I've missed you._

"A moi aussi." _Me, too_ _._

Behind them, the sound of a chair scraping across the floor captured their attention, and Logan turned to see Pierre giving them a wink as he picked up a record and placed it on the gramophone in the corner of the bar.

As the first strains of music filtered through the room, Logan held out his hand to Veronica.

"Danse avec moi?"  _Dance with me?_

"Avec plaisir."  _With pleasure._

His smile widened into a grin as he led her to a space in the middle of the bar floor and took her into his arms. As they swayed to the music, Veronica's arms looped around his neck, rising up on her tiptoes so she could kiss him, he realised in that moment, that this was it. He was going to marry this girl.

* * *

**Neptune, California, February 1985**

"And that's the story of how your grandmother and I met," concludes Logan.

"No, wait. That can't be all of it," protests Laura. "It was just getting good."

"Maybe not," Logan agrees, glancing over at the doorway to the kitchen, where Veronica is tapping her watch impatiently. "But that's all we have time for right now. Looks like Grandma has dinner ready."

The kids scramble off the couch and race into the kitchen, leaving Veronica to call after them, "Don't forget to wash your hands before you dig in."

As Logan gets up off the couch, stretches his aching limbs, Veronica turns back to him and crosses the room, meeting him halfway.

"That was quite a story you were telling there," she says, slipping her arms around his waist. "I think maybe I've heard it somewhere before."

"Heard it?" Logan questions in amusement, his arms coming around her now, mimicking her position. "Baby, you  _lived_  it."

"And what a life it was."

"I wouldn't trade it for the world." He brings one of his hands up, running a finger along the neat curls she still wears in her short, greying hair.

"Me either," she murmurs, looking up at him with smiling eyes. "Danse avec moi?"

"Avec plaisir," he replies, "but maybe not right now… we have hungry grandkids to feed. But later, when we have the house to ourselves, we'll dance all night long."


End file.
